


April: Personification

by caras_galadhon (Galadriel)



Series: A Figure of Speech [4]
Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Anger, Angst, Break Up, Established Relationship, Fear, Introspection, M/M, Memories, Neglect, Vignette, Worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-04-30
Updated: 2008-04-30
Packaged: 2017-11-14 08:18:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/513198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galadriel/pseuds/caras_galadhon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>April brings Viggo a solitude of sorts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	April: Personification

**Author's Note:**

> This ficlet follows approximately a month after **[March: Dissonance](http://caras-galadhon.livejournal.com/370138.html)** (which in turn follows after **[January: Pathetic Fallacy](http://caras-galadhon.livejournal.com/359714.html)** and **[February: Meiosis](http://caras-galadhon.livejournal.com/365122.html)** ), but can be read as a standalone if so desired.

  
_" **[P]ersonification,** a figure of speech by which animals, abstract ideas, or inanimate things are referred to as if they were human."_  
~From _The Concise Oxford Dictionary of Literary Terms_ by Chris Baldick.

He'd watched silently as Sean had packed, watched his suitcase fill up with soft t-shirts Viggo remembered sleeping with when Sean was away, with jeans and trousers Viggo'd felt rasp against his fingertips as he tugged them down, with suits and ties Viggo'd admired over dinner out. He watched as Sean tossed in shampoo and soap and toothpaste and cologne, and remembered all the times they'd laughed in the shower, shared minty kisses, and the way _Sean_ lingered in the air, spice and sex and maleness, even after he'd left the room.

He'd tried, more than once, to find the right words to cross the gulf between them, to tell Sean that the house was his, that he didn't need to leave, that the garden would miss him, that the mattress didn't creak in the right way when he was gone, but the rapidly filling luggage, stuffed to the brim with memories made and kept, choked Viggo's throat, stopped up his lungs with regret.

When the case had clicked closed, he'd heard the rebuke, the quiet 'tsk' in the snap and lock of moving metal, and he knew he'd waited too long to let his heart talk, too long to give voice to all the myriad moments that roiled and clawed at his stomach, fighting to escape.

The damning death-knell of the darkened door was almost anti-climactic, Sean's departure only a natural outgrowth of Viggo's own witless withdrawal a handful of months ago. He knew that he had no one but himself to blame, that no one but Viggo had driven Sean from their home, but that made his fear all the more paralysing, his fateful certainty a spreading poison immobilizing each limb.

And now he was left alone in a house that ignored him, the tick-tick-ticking of the wall clock a clucking tongue counting off the seconds until the full force of Viggo's failure took root, the humming fridge a deafening condemnation of his own weakness. He found himself wandering hallways that whispered Sean's words, anger and hurt twined together with a final declaration of love.

Outside, peering in, the garden glowered at him, growing wilder by the minute. Each unkempt plant, each triumphing weed stood testament to Viggo's ineptitude, a constantly shifting sign of how easily he'd neglected the seeds that most needed nurturing, the plants that withered from lack of tending, choked by carelessness, by the belief that when he needed Spring, they'd be there in full flower.

Worse than Sean's absence was his firm _presence_ , the barrier that kept Viggo camped out on the cot in his studio, unable to share the empty bed, cursed to drift through space, listening to the furniture reminisce about rooms filled with life and laughter, with the trembling strains of piano song. Sean's books stared Viggo down, well-thumbed paperbacks scattered over shelves, tables and chairs, lying in wait for Viggo to stumble across them, a conspiracy enacted in tandem with favourite mugs, half-chewed pens, discarded wrappers and mateless socks. The stillness spoke volumes, drowned out all but the beating of Viggo's heart, half-stopped, now racing, panicked by the hush in his head, the mingling memories crushing creativity, grinding all but guilt under their heels.

If he could, he'd part handset from cradle, set the whole world to rights with a few simple, perfect, _shining_ words, but the phone was fire under his fingertips, the dial tone a harridan railing against him, a ceaseless raging stream of senseless static.

If he just sat still enough, just listened hard enough, maybe Sean's voice would cut through the static, a balm of forgiveness to be spread across his soul. If he opened himself up, exposed sinew and self, he might catch the slightest hint of Sean's scent.

And if he stayed here in the house, kept careful watch, a penitent guard to his sins, the door would no doubt open, ushering in his pardon. Any minute now, Sean would come back to him, anger and pain smoothed from his face, radiating nothing but absolution and love.

Any minute now.

Any minute.

If he just stayed _still_.


End file.
